


Curve

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-02
Updated: 2006-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam watches, then touches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curve

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2006

*

Dean likes to read on the bed, propped on his stomach with his elbows under him so his spine arches comfortably under the fabric of his worn T shirts. He seems to prize his flexibility, how limber he can be, especially after the crash, stretching, yawning, straining at every opportunity. 

Sam watches him carefully from the chair where he's typing, bent over their new laptop. At first, it was a force of habit, making sure the old tremors weren't back, looking for the first sign of a wince or wrinkle in Dean's expression, but now he's remembering other reasons to look, eyes drawn to the line of muscle at Dean's shoulder, the long slope of his spine. He gaze crawls down the length of it to where the fabric pools a little in a shadowed dip before curving out into the swell of his ass. 

When Sam swallows, Dean turns his head, brows crinkled a little, his hands folded in front of him, fingers splayed over a page. 

"You wanna take a picture?" 

Sam can read the smirk behind his eyes, along the sharp cut of his cheekbone and the ripe curve of a ready smirk. 

He slowly closes the laptop with a click, and moves toward the bed, his head ringing and hands wired. 

Dean starts to shift from his position, but Sam's already on top of him, warm weight, one hand at the back of Dean's neck, holding him down, the other one idly stroking up the worn denim casing his thigh. 

"Not really."

Dean's chuckle reverberates through both of them. Sam bends so his hair cuts across his eyes, presses his lips to the soft skin right beneath the short hair until Dean hisses into the sheets. He slowly draws his tongue down over the first knob of Dean's spine, moving his other hand to the rucked up hem of the worn blue shirt, drawing it up over Dean's heaving ribs, bands of muscle bunching and stretching beneath his fingers. 

He likes the smooth rough scrape of skin across his palm, the hard line of Dean's hip, ripple of lean stomach and indrawn breaths. Sam sucks a little at Dean's neck, touch of teeth, presses his weight down before leaning up, breathing warm across the damp skin.

"Fuck, Sam." Dean tries to turn his head, but Sam just draws the shirt the rest of the way over him, ruffling the soft spikes of his hair and trapping his arms, shoulders stretched. 

The expanse of back in front of him seems to go for miles, tanned skin that dips and curves in the shadows of the room, freckles fanned out in clusters. Sam's mouth is dry, full of a thousand half poetic things that might fly out embarrassingly, but he's too aware of how Dean would kick his ass, so he just bends and licks all the way down the rolling length of spine, his hands kneading freckled shoulder blades, loving the sharp spun softness of the heated skin. 

Dean's swearing and moaning into the pillow by the time he squirms his way down to that beautiful dip, living skin moving above it. He closes his eyes till his lashes brush skin and Dean jerks, then slowly licks around the curve, salt and arousal on his tongue, spine arched desperate right against his face. 

"Sam," says Dean. "Sam." Then something that's barely distinguishable from his slur of swears and groans. 

Sam slides one hand under Dean's hips, casually cups the hardness he feels there, undoes his fly and tugs jeans and boxers down, down past taut thighs and knees. Dean breathes in hard just once when the cool air hits his ass, then grinds his cock into the sheets on a strangled cry. 

Sam keeps in place, hands framing the bucking hips. He wants another taste of salt, goes back to the familiar dip, one hand squeezing the firm curve of ass presented for him. 

"Get, God, get the fuck on with it - I - "

Sheen of sweat along the back now, but Sam takes his time, carefully spreads his brother's thighs, nipping at damp flesh until Dean nearly squeaks, and hell if he's ever letting that one go. 

The first swipe of his tongue at the dark shadow of Dean's opening sends him scrambling, straining forward on the bed. Sam inhales, slicks up one finger with his spit and slowly lets the heat overtake it till he's breathing Dean in, beautifully spread open with tongue and hand, squirming in his grasp.

Dean tightens around him, and Sam slicks his tongue up, up over his back again, breathing as he goes, dipping a second finger into the tight, shifting flesh below, pressing. His brother tenses beneath him, an utterly open noise escaping from his lips, little catch of breath that's always made Sam flush. 

He curls his fingers against resisting flesh, slick heat, and Dean's straining against him, barely held down now. 

Sam undoes his own pants, slips his free hand in the pocket of Dean's jeans until the familiar plastic crinkles in his fingers. Never unprepared, his brother. He has to grin. 

He bends again, tongue circling the stretched entrance, letting his fingers slip out as he shifts up, press of skin on skin, Dean's fist white knuckled around the sheets. Sam waits until they're chest to back, pressed close enough to feel every shift and breath, before covering it with his own, waits for Dean's first swear, first denial, but there's nothing, only a bitten off sound the feel of fingers twining around his own.

The first, slow slide of his cock feels like something uncurling inside of him, vice and cradle all at once, the burning comfort of his brother's body all around him, slicked and stretched out with Sam's own tongue, his own fingers. 

He breathes, drops his head beside Dean's on the bed, presses his lips to a stubbled cheek, drags one hand up Dean's side. 

He can feel the heat of his brother's back, each knob in the spine, through his own shirt, moving, arching against his every thrust. 

Dean's slipped further out of his own jeans, spreading his thighs beneath Sam, ass arched up invitingly from his spine, so open it hurts to take from it. Sam can feel the stretch and heat of him all around, absurdly comforting, still taste the dark scent of him, the older salt, on his tongue. 

He presses, presses until there are white prints rising around his hands, and he's the one with no control now, blindly going forward because it's too much, there's nowhere else, just too much heat, too much hold. 

He feels the sheets slick beneath them when Dean tightens around him, a bitten off moan, and guiltily remembers he hasn't even touched his brother's cock, but by then it's too late, and he goes deep, so deep he's not sure they're even separate anymore, his chest plastered to the familiar map of Dean's back, a hot flush between them, his insides curling out. 

Dean sighs into the sheets, his book forgotten, fingers curling loosely beneath Sam's touch. 

Sam settles into familiar curves, body loose, smiles into his brother's back. 

*


End file.
